<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Underneath the Mackerel Sky by neocitybynight</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25674538">Underneath the Mackerel Sky</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/neocitybynight/pseuds/neocitybynight'>neocitybynight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>K-pop, NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Childhood Friends, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:00:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25674538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/neocitybynight/pseuds/neocitybynight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which your best friend Mark is leaving for college, and you must decide whether to tell him about the decade-long crush you have on him, or forever hold your peace. Little do either of you know it, but you may have less time than you think.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mark Lee (NCT)/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>“It’s going to rain.”</b> Mark takes a sip of Ramuné. “Wow, this is sweet.” Grimacing a little at the fizz, he points to the sky, which is blue and clear as can be, save a few whispy clouds and the fading tail of a jet stream.</p><p>"Really?” Reaching a hand up, you trail it through the air, watching as the light of the setting sun paints your hand in strokes of gold. It was your idea for a picnic, to savor one of the last lazy summer days before the start of freshman year. Reaching into the Tupperware full of cherries that Mark brought, you pop one in your mouth, laying back across his long legs. Almost on instinct, his hand goes to your hair, rubbing a loose strand between his fingers absentmindedly as he speaks. </p><p>“Yeah, you see those cloud patterns?” he says, pointing. “That’s a mackerel sky.”</p><p>“Mackerel? As in fish?”</p><p>Ignoring your snort of amusement, he continues, speaking seriously. “See, there’s the spine, then all the little cirrus clouds coming off are like pin bones, you see? <b>Mackerel. Means rain.”</b></p><p>You sit up, lips twisting in amusement. “Mark, aren’t you about to start a course in meteorology? No way is that scientific. Who taught you that?”</p><p>His face falls a little, and you suck in a breath. You know that look. “My mom did,” he says quietly. </p><p>“Mark, I’m sorry,” you say, sitting up. “I didn’t mean-”</p><p>“It’s fine.” Leaning back, he takes off his faded blue Blue Jays cap, making a distracted pass through his hair with one slim hand before replacing it on his head. </p><p>It’s not, but you also know better than to push him on it. “Marky, I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow.”</p><p>“I know,” he sighs, stuffing a whole cherry into his mouth, chewing pensively. After a moment, the stem emerges, tied in a neat little loop. “You sure it’s not too late for you to transfer to UC Berkley? Oh, or UCLA. They have that program you like, right?”</p><p>“And about double tuition,” you say. “Plus, USC and UCLA are rivals. We’d hate each other in a week.”</p><p>“Huh?” Mark looks at you, making that surprised little noise in the back of his throat. “No, c’mon, I could never. You’re my <em>chingu,</em> you know that.”</p><p>You do know that, far too well. Sitting up, pulling away from his casual touch, you try to collect your thoughts. You’ve always liked Mark - first as just a friend, you know, two five-year-olds playing in the sandbox, but then...pretty much ever since you learned what really liking a person meant - the sweaty palms, the hatching of a thousand butterflies in your stomach, the heat staining your cheeks - you’ve seen Mark that way.</p><p>To be honest, nearly everybody at your school has a crush on Mark. He’s cute, both in personality and looks, with a bright, childish innocence mixed with an adult’s discerning eye. He’s a genuinely nice person, always looking to find ways to help people, always working so hard. He’s a talented athlete (soccer in the fall, track in the spring) and also frequents your school’s open mics, armed with a guitar and a worn Moleskin full of original songs.</p><p>Basically, Mark is everyone’s dream guy, including yours, but you’re stuck in the unfortunate place of being his first and best friend. Even if he did have feelings for you, he likely would never act on them, out of fear of losing you, of messing things up, or he’d simply do nothing because he’s Mark. Being in touch with his emotions really just isn’t his strong suit.</p><p>“I do,” you say, pasting a smile onto your face. “Love you, Mark.”</p><p>“Love you too,” he says carelessly, reaching into the picnic basket at the same time as you. Your hands bump briefly, and you feel a small spark jump across your skin, but it seems that you’re the only one affected. Mark just grabs his Capri-Sun (he insisted on eating stupid stuff like Go-Gurt, Lunchables, all your grade-school staples, as a last run sort of thing) and sets to work trying to take the plastic off the straw, oblivious to the way your heart has sped up.</p><p>“Give me that,” you say impatiently, biting off the tip of the packaging and stabbing it into the juice pouch a little harder than is necessary. “Butterfingers.”</p><p>“You know, I actually started guitar lessons as a kid to work on my finger dexterity,” he says mildly, accepting the Capri-Sun and taking a sip. “Do you remember that?”</p><p>“I remember you assaulting my ears for months before you finally learned how to do a bar chord,” you shoot back. </p><p>“And then I wrote you a song using it, just to spite you,” he laughs. “Cherry Bomb, remember? It was wonderful.”</p><p><b>“Wonderful, that’s a strong word,”</b> you say, pulling a face. “Honestly, I don’t think I could forget such trauma.” Mark coughs, juice spewing across his chin.</p><p>“Hey, take that back,” he whines, reaching for a napkin. “I put a lot of time into that. Not everyone gets a Mark Lee Special.”</p><p>“Oh, really?” you say. “What about Sophie? Ash? Denise? Qiu? Anie? Were their songs bullying diss tracks too? You must’ve written a song for every pretty face in the grade, whether they know it or not. I wouldn’t call it special.”</p><p>Mark looks at you, lip trembling slightly, and for a moment, you think you’ve actually hurt him. Then he lunges forward, grabbing you around the waist, tickling you mercilessly. “Take it back,” he singsongs, fingers digging into your ribs. “Cherry Bomb was different and you know it.”</p><p>“And...why’s...that?” you choke, curling up into a ball like some weird turtle as he tickles you. “What makes me different from them?”</p><p>Mark pauses, hands slipping from the cotton fabric of your t-shirt. Grabbing his juice box, he takes a heavy swig, like he’s a 40-year-old divorcee with a G&amp;T, not an eighteen-year-old music major. “Nothing, absolutely nothing.”</p><p>“Whoa, Mark, I was just joking,” you say, discomfort prickling up your spine. Leave it up to Mark to catch the one off-color comment you make. After all these years of pain and hinting.</p><p>“No, I know,” he says. The Capri-Sun goes squish, becoming a sticky ball of foil in his left hand. There’s something in his eyes, a look you can’t quite parse out, creasing his handsome brow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”</p><p>“Like what?” you say, startling. Were you being that obvious?</p><p>“You’re giving me that look,” he says. “Like there’s something on your mind. C’mon, I’ve known you for how long? Thirteen years this September? You’re thinking about something.”</p><p>You blow out a long breath. The answer, the one burning just below your throat and a little the left, aches to be released, but you just can’t. It’s like the god of eternal misery has stolen all the courage you possess, cursing you to be a cowardly, single human for the rest of your life. </p><p>“I’m just afraid, I guess,” you say, the small truth tasting bitter in your mouth.</p><p>Mark looks at you, surprise dawning in his dark eyes. “Afraid? Why?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” you say, throwing yourself back onto the blanket.</p><p>“Come on,” he says, flopping down beside you, propping his cheek on one hand. “What’s wrong? I’m leaving in, like, twelve hours, don’t leave me hanging like this.”</p><p>The visual of his empty room, the suitcases you’d helped him pack earlier that day, the thought of him moving halfway across the country, making a new group of friends, going to parties, kissing some faceless girl under the stars...</p><p>“I’m afraid that things will change,” you burst out. </p><p>“Change?”</p><p>“Like this. All of this.” You gesture to him, the soft plaid blanket, the picnic basket, the green of the park around you, the streaks of sunset orange just beginning to paint the horizon. "Picnics. Tickle wars. We’re not kids anymore. We’re about to start school in very different places, studying very different things, this may be the last time we’re together like this.”</p><p>“Yo, what? Are you saying you’re going to forget me?” Mark laughs, pressing a hand to his heart. “I’m not dying or anything, I’ll be back for Christmas. I’m hurt.”</p><p>“Mark, be serious,” you say. “We’re about to go from seeing each other nearly every day, for over a decade, to seeing each other once every few months? I don’t care how much we say we’ll FaceTime or whatever. It just won’t be the same.”</p><p>You look at him, expecting him to make a joke, but he doesn’t. On the contrary, he sighs. “Yeah, I get that. I’ve been thinking about that too, believe it or not.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Really really.” Mark reaches forward, chucking your chin in a familiar motion, but when you look into his eyes, really look, it feels new. There’s a heat, an intensity you don’t often see, like chips of flint and steel swimming in his brown irises. “As lame as it is...I don’t want to lose you either.”</p><p>The admission is simple, thoughtless, no strings, but the little crush-shaped monster, the one you’ve spent so much time battling and pushing down, rears its head, emboldened by Mark’s sudden change in mood. “Can you lose someone you’ve never really had?”</p><p>Mark stares down at you, a question swimming in his eyes. “But I’ve always had you. Ever since we were little.”</p><p>“No,” you say. “You haven’t.”</p><p>“No?” </p><p>“No,” you say, and close the gap. Your lips press into his for just the briefest of moments, just a peck, before you pull back. Mark blinks at you, eyes wide.</p><p>“Um, <em>soljighi,</em> I, well,<em> naega</em>...” Mark is absolutely, fully capable of speaking both his mother tongue of English, along with the Korean he learned at home, and in the rare moments when he loses the ability to communicate fluently in either, you know he’s flustered. “What was that for?”</p><p>“That’s me, finally admitting my feelings the day before you leave like an idiot,” you say, the words tumbling out fast. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked, you definitely hate me now, I’ll just-”</p><p>You’re cut off as he leans forward, effectively cutting off your rambling with a kiss of his own. This time he’s not reeling from shock, instead, his warm lips slot against yours, his hand coming up to cup your chin gently, holding you in place. You fall into the kiss, and it’s like the last ten years of angst, of pining, of watching him go through flings, dates, of pretending he’s just a friend to you, all melts way, coalescing into the warm sun on your back, the softness of Mark’s mouth against yours, his contented sigh against your lips as you slip your hands into his dark hair.</p><p>To be fair, it’s not like you’ve exactly kept yourself pure (among a few others, you actually dated his friend Jaemin for a bit, a perfectly nice guy and a good kisser, but broke up with him after realizing that there just wasn’t a ‘spark'), but kissing Mark is different. It’s like your bodies know each other, intuitively, but are also perfect strangers. </p><p><b>Mark is smart, kind, funny, a great conversationalist, </b>and you know this side of him. All his little phrases, and superstitions and quirks, like predicting the weather through clouds.<b> It’s going to rain.</b> But you don’t know the feeling of his lips, the twirl of his tongue against yours, the press of his hand on your waist as he pulls you closer.</p><p>It’s strange and familiar, old and new, right and wrong all at once, to be kissing your best friend, to nip at his lip, tugging his hair slightly, to feel him shiver against you as his hand slides from your waist to your thigh, trailing a delicious heat across your skin. You feel dizzy, lightheaded, hear a rushing in your ears-</p><p>“Fuck.” Mark rips his mouth from yours, forcibly pushing himself back. You stare at him, bewildered. </p><p>“I can’t do this,” he moans, hands grabbing his hair in clumps. “Not again.”</p><p>“Mark, what are you talking about?”</p><p>“God, you have no idea, do you? How much I’ve wanted to kiss you since, I don’t know when,” he says. “But I was always so afraid, so afraid that I’d fuck something up, that I’d hurt you somehow and you’d leave.”</p><p>He’s working himself up, breath coming shallowly, careening towards one of his attacks. “Mark, stop,” you say softly, laying a hand on his arm, but he pulls it back, like he’s been branded. “I’m not leaving. No matter what, I’ll never leave you.”</p><p>“That’s what they all say,” he says, voice shaking, eyes wild. “That’s what my mom said, that’s what Taeyong said, and they still...fucking...left.”</p><p>His mother, killed in a drunk driving car accident when Mark was four. His older brother Taeyong, who had always had a rocky relationship with Mr. Lee, had moved out at sixteen and cut all ties, leaving the then-twelve Mark in an empty house with nothing but an absent father and a dusty Bible to guide him. It had been you who had picked up the pieces then, and you who must do it now.</p><p>“Every time I love someone, every time I let them in, they always make promises, and then leave,” he mumbles, ripping up clumps of grass with his hands, staining his fingers green. </p><p>“Mark, come here,” you say, reaching for him, and this time he relents, allowing you to gather him in your arms. You hold him tight, tears sliding down your cheeks, dampening his hair. “Mark, I...I love you. In every sense of the word. Thirteen years, does that mean nothing? I can’t erase what’s happened in the past, but I can tell you that I love you, and that I will never, ever leave.”</p><p>Your voice rises, a steady crescendo of crushed dreams and lost years, and Mark looks up at the sound. <b>“I’m sorry,” </b>he says, bottom lip trembling, eyes glistening. “I love you too. It’s taken me way too long to realize that, that it’s okay to feel this way. I know you won’t leave me, I know it, I just-”</p><p><b>“Don’t cry,”</b> you say fiercely. “Mark Lee, you are the one leaving me to pursue your dreams, halfway across the country. And I support you unconditionally in that. You deserve to be happy, to be with whomever you like.”</p><p>Your heart clenches at these last words, but in this moment, you know it to be true. Come what may, you know Mark is right. Even if you do love each other, even if you do feel this way with an all-consuming passion, he’s leaving. You can’t ask him to stay, and he can’t ask you to go. To be in a relationship would hold the both of you back from exploring college and young adulthood the way you should, and it would, likely, end in cheating or unhappiness for one or both, and you just can’t do that to each other. So you’ll have to settle. Settle for being best friends, for burying your feelings like you always have. Maybe not forever, but for now? The kindest, most mature thing is to let the other go.</p><p>“I know,” Mark says, and you blink, not realizing you’d spoken aloud. “Fuck, this is so me, isn’t it? To finally admit that I love someone for once, but to lose you right after.”</p><p>“You’re just a tiny bit oblivious, Lee,” you say, sniffling. </p><p>“Hey, that’s mean,” he says, kissing the top of your head, hugging you tightly. The clean scent of his cologne fills your nose, the same scent he’s worn since you were twelve and he discovered body sprays other than Axe, and you feel warm, safe, comforted. He holds you there for what feels like an eternity, strong arms clutching you tight, like he’ll never let go.</p><p>Even when the evening shadows begin to appear, when you pack up and drive home, when you bid him good night (there’s a moment when you think you might kiss, but you don’t, the self control you exert feeling like you’re ripping an arm off), when you wake up at five next morning and drive him to the airport through thick, silvery sheets of rain (the idiot was right), when you hug him one last time at his boarding gate, you can still feel the ghost of his touch, every word that he couldn’t say poured into you through his warm embrace.</p><p>“Mark!” You call, and like the leading man of a cliché romance movie, he turns.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“I’ll be with you,” you say. “Doesn’t matter where we are, doesn’t matter if we’re old and grey and senile, I will never leave you. <em>Saranghae.”</em></p><p>You add the last part in Korean because you know if you said the English words burning in both your hearts, gave name to the elephant of elephants that had haunted the room of your friendship for the past ten years, he’d never leave. As it is, Mark’s jaw clenches, and it looks like he’s doing everything he can to keep from dropping his luggage and running back to you. He opens his mouth, and you can see the words, trembling on the tip of his tongue. But then a group of loud American tourists in bright backpacks and baseball caps appear, pushing him forward, and he has no choice but to turn and head down the tunnel to the plane.</p><p>You pull out your phone and text him: <em>Don’t feel pressured to answer me now. Or ever. I just had to say it. Lmk when u land? </em></p><p>The last thing you see is his dark head, bobbing slightly above the backpacks, turning the corner to the tunnel and disappearing into the airplane. You stand, shocked and still, until the boarding guard asks you if you’re getting on too, and you leave with an embarrassed no. As you walk through the airport, you already feel a crushing sense of loneliness. It’s only been minutes, but he already feels far, far away. <em>Saranghae.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>You are invited to the funerary services of Mark Minhyung Lee (1999-2020), which will take place this Saturday, at 1 PM in the All Saint’s Chapel.</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><strong>It’s going to rain.</strong> That’s one of the last things I remember my best friend saying to me. It’s something that will always stay in my mind, because it reminds me: life is so impermanent. One moment you’re here, one moment you’re not. Any words you say could be your last words, and in Mark’s case, that was what I most clearly remember him saying on our last day together. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><strong>Mackerel. Means rain.</strong> That was something he was always doing, pointing out the randomest little things, always finding signs and little superstitions. Even though Mark was a science kid through and through, he also had this belief in a higher power, not even God necessarily, though church was important to him as well. But he had these little routines, and it was like the universe would rupture around him if he skipped them. He never stepped onto the soccer field until he and Donghyuck had done their secret handshake, never stepped on a crack for fear of breaking his mother’s back, even though she’d passed away when he was four. He was always so careful, so conscientious to the world around him, and that’s just part of what made Mark so wonderful.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><strong>Wonderful, that’s a strong word. </strong>But there’s no better to describe him. His kindness, his sense of humor, that little scrunchy face he made when he laughed, the fact that he was absolutely the type of guy to give up his seat on a bus or help an old lady across the street with her groceries. Kids loved him so much, and he always made time for them, even if they freaked him out a little. He worked so hard on everything, from something as simple as Algebra homework, to lifelong projects such as guitar or dance. He even tried hard on the things he wasn’t good at - I learned very quickly never to let him near eggs or the stove in general. In short, Mark was the kind of guy you’d want to bring home to your parents. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><strong>Smart, kind, funny, a great conversationalist.</strong> Mark was going places. He was headed to USC on that day, the rainy day, just as he predicted. He had it all planned out - major in music, minor in business. Best case scenario, he’d get signed in LA and start his career as a singer, worst case, he’d come back to Toronto and try to find work at a record label. Just maybe not Drake’s. I could see it - the screaming fans, the world tours, the chart-topping hits. If anyone could do it, it was Mark.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><strong>It’s going to rain.</strong> Four words, but some of the cruelest, because no matter how kind, how talented, how wonderful you are, you can never control fate. The fate that made Mark fly out a week early for the Students of Color orientation. The fate that it was raining that day, and the pilot was new, unused to flying in those conditions. The fate that ripped one of the most important people from my life. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><strong>I’m sorry.</strong> I’m rambling a bit, I know. We’ve all come here today to celebrate Mark, and I’m up here, talking about all the ephemeral things - what could have been, what would have been. And the reality is, Mark is gone. He’s left an irreparable hole in my heart, an empty seat next to me, an unread message telling him to text me when he landed. Not a day will go by when I won’t miss him, not a day has yet. But if he were here, I know what he’d say. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><strong>Don’t cry.</strong> He’d tell me to lift up my chin, look up to the mackerel sky. Even if it’s going to rain, which it will, inevitably, I can’t let that stop me from enjoying the sun. Even though I’ll have to live the rest of my life without him, he’ll never truly be gone. He’d tell me to find him everywhere - in the puffs of the clouds, the splash of Lake Ontario where we used to swim every summer, the glow of the stars we used to watch at night. Mark would want me - and all of you - to keep living for him, whether that’s until tomorrow, next week, three months, seventy years. Because at the end of the day, you can’t control fate. Only enjoy the ride and the moments and the mackerel skies that come along with it.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Cross-posted on Tumblr! Come find me @neocitybynight.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>